


That Secret They All Know

by Salomonderiel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek's POV, Fluff, M/M, apologies for any briticisms, not underage for brits, oh the fluff, underage cos America has weird laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere, somehow, along the line, Stiles went from being the human sidekick of his stupid beta, to someone he gives lifts to when there's torrential rain, to being the one who sleeps beside him on the couch. </p>
<p>And god help him, but, for some reason he REALLY can't figure out - he doesn't seem to be doing much to stop this from happening. </p>
<p>Fluff - 18,000 words of endless, grauitous fluff, with a tiny bit of angst and a nice bit of smut to round it all off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been a sucker of developing relationships, and small little fluffy scenes. And, though I LOVE writing from Stiles' POV, decided to flip it up and write as Derek for a change. 
> 
> Beta'd by the luvely LucentPetrichor, bless 'er and her patience. God knows how many times she read some parts of this.

Some days, believe it or not, it was nice to just _ignore_ that there were 5 teenagers he was responsible for probably destroying something somewhere, _ignore_ there were people who wanted to kill him, and read about people killing _other_ people instead.

Today was one such day.

The sky was clear, sun shining, forest quiet, and if anyone stopped him enjoying the day in peace and quiet, and from finishing his book, Derek would rip their spine out through their chest with compunction and raw grin of sweet revenge.

He might give them a second to run first.

He only set down the book one time since picking it up at nine that morning, and that was to piss against a tree and then to grab the freezer bag of pre-made sandwiches, chips and beer he’d bought from the store the day before. Essentials. Within five minutes he was back to lying on the grass with the book in one hand, food substances in the other.

The plan after that had been to read until he finished (and knowing his speed, that wouldn’t be until late into the evening), but, of course, nothing in his life had ever really gone as anyone had planned.

When he first heard the footsteps, with around a quarter of the book left, he ignored them. Far enough away not to trouble him.

As they got louder and undeniably nearer, he decided to hope that whoever it was, was just passing by. Common enough, after all – people still expected the place to be uninhabited.

When it was no longer doubtable that the hiker in question was heading straight for the Hale house, Derek scowled, and closed his eyes, resorting to desperately hoping that if he didn’t move, they’d just step over him.

Perhaps if it had been someone as stupid as Jackson, or Scott, whose senses were permanently dulled by the rose-scented haze he always walked around in. He might even have had a chance if it was Allison, or her family. With the other three leather-clad cubs, he could just yell ‘go’ and watch them grumble, turn tail and slouch away.

But it had to be the one stubborn, idiotic person who would, quite literally, trip over him.

He didn’t even need to look to see who it was; there was the distinct, unmistakable scent or adderall, if the stumbling footsteps alone weren’t enough to identify him by.

Stiles had run straight towards the front door, not looking where he was going, and had managed to catch his foot on Derek’s ankle, sending him stumbling, flying, flailing, and slamming into the railings of the steps.

Derek kept the idea that if he didn’t move, Stiles wouldn’t see him.

“ _Shit_ _yaaaaaaaarh_ ooh that’s gonna leave a bruise,” came the steady stream of moans and curious anecdotes about the fall, and grass being crushed as Stiles hopped about, leg lifted up so he could prod his calf. Hidden behind the book, Derek rolled his eyes. “But – _dude_ what the hell are you doing on the _floor?_ ”

Plan foiled. Derek resorted to default. He lowered the book and rolled his head to the side, staring at Stiles blandly. The boy stared back, eyes wide and hopeful for an answer that really wasn’t coming.

“Okay fine, but really, like, cordon yourself off next time or something, put up a sign, ‘Warning, Sour-Wolf-Strewn Floor, Tread With Care’, yeah?” The way he was waving his arms did nothing to make the comment sound at all serious.

Derek pointedly didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, keeping eye contact, he said, each word carefully enunciated, “What do you want, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, pursed his lips, shifted his weight, moved his arms before putting them back exactly as they had been and even looked around before finally saying, “Um, I was, just looking for Scott?”

Derek wasn’t sure if the way it was phrased as a question made him despair, or want to smile. “You sure?” he couldn’t stop himself asking.

“Um... yes?”

His lips twitched at the purposeful doubt in Stiles’ tone. He didn’t have the control to stop it, only enough to return his face to his usual blank expression immediately after.

“Anyway, he’s not at _home_ , he’s not with _Allison_ , he’s not _training_ , sooooo... I was thinking he might be here?”

Still with the questions? Derek raised his eyebrows.

“And... I’m going to take an educated, calculated guess that he isn’t. Unless, y’know, you’ve killed him and buried him somewhere...” Stiles cleared his throat, clapped his hands together and turned away quickly again. As he was, delightfully awkwardly, looking in the other direction, Derek let himself grin.

Stiles grinned, still delightfully awkward, and looked back to Derek, who schooled his expression again. “Heh – you haven’t, have you?”

That didn’t merit an answer. Didn’t need one. He just raised an eyebrow, loving the reaction Stiles gave.

There was a moment’s silence, whilst Stiles just looked half terrified, half exasperated, and Derek just drank it in, before Stiles shook himself and said, more confident and desperate, “Look, do you know where he is?”

“Why would I know where he is, I’m not his babysitter.”

“But he’s like a kitten! A very, very stupid kitten! Or a hamster, one that chews through the live wire with _really freaky_ _accuracy_! He needs constant intelligent-person supervision! We can’t just let him go out into the scary, scary world alone!” He was almost wailing.

“I’m not his babysitter,” Derek repeated. Perhaps repetition might make it sink in. And, going by the bitchface Stiles was now giving him, it had. He tried for an innocent expression, and the glare he was getting just strengthened. Part of him wanted to smile, laugh, _beam_ with victory. Because – and this was something he was determinedly not analysing – provoking reactions from Stiles was honestly one of the joys in his life.

He waited, expecting Stiles to storm off now he’d realised how little help Derek would be. But he didn’t. Rather, his eyes focused on the book in Derek’s hands, frowning at them, then widening ridiculously. You’d think Derek was reading the original Declaration of Independence. Or worse, Twilight. “Wait – hold on – holy mother, you’re reading a _book!”_

“Reading? No, I’m practising the evil eye. The paper should erupt into boils any second now.”

“I didn’t know you read?”

Derek gave him the ‘you’re an idiot’ look that Stiles fully deserved. “Have you ever seen a TV in there?” he asked, nodding towards the house. “What do you _think_ I do all day?”

“To be honest?” Stiles shrugged, mouth tilting upside down. “Sat around looking broody. Practise makes perfect, am I right? That, or looked into the mirror practising ‘ _grrr I shall eat you when you least expect it’_ faces,” he added, pulling a face and batting at the air with clawed hands. He straightened up, and said, completely seriously, “because really, if you’re that good at it _naturally_ , something is _wrong_.”

Derek stared at him for a full ten seconds. Stiles stared back, unblinking, unflinching – even _grinning_.

When had Stiles gone from looking at him like a stranger to fear, to... well... like _that?_

Derek sighed, rolling his head away and said, “Scott went into town to buy something for Allison, it’s their anniversary next week. Don’t ask me how I know, _that_ I know is wounding enough. Go.”

“Yep, good, thank you, au revoir, adieu-”

“ _Go.”_

Stiles laughed, starting to walk away from the house. Derek forced his eyes to fix back onto the page as Stiles came closer. With a huff off breath, Stiles jumped over Derek’s legs, and jogged off into the forest. “Enjoy your book!” he yelled.

Derek rolled his eyes, and looked away from the steadily vanishing back of the teenage and back to his book. As he slipped back into the story, and his concentration faded, he started to smile.

**

It was _pissing_ it down. If he had any common sense, he’d have pulled over long ago and waited for it to pass, just wait at the side of the road, like every other car he’d passed was doing. To drive in this, especially through a populated town centre, was _stupid_.

Stupid, if you weren’t an over-confident, quick-healing and remarkably stubborn werewolf with quick reflexes.

Which Derek was. He was man enough to admit it.

He also had a few gallon of milk in the back, and several crates of eggs, which he needed to get to the cold cellars beneath his house. Not counting how the natural temperature everywhere just then couldn’t be above 23 degrees F.

He’d always liked rain. He’d liked the coolness of the water, the protection of it, the blurring and the shadows. That probably said something about himself, but he wasn’t really willing to analyse it.

And besides, he told himself, he wasn’t really risking anything anyway. The streets were almost utterly empty, and the school probably wasn’t even open. He doubted anyone was even out of _bed_ in this weather, let alone driving.

Yet – apparently – _someone_ was.

Stunned, not quite able to believe anyone was that stupid, Derek stared at the shadow huddled beneath the bus stop sign, muttering criticisms under his breath. They weren’t even in a _car_. They were just _standing_ there, when it was pouring down, in minus temperatures – whoever it was, was just _asking_ for-

Stiles.

It was Stiles.

With a moan, Derek slammed his head into the back of his seat, before slamming on the break, skidding to a stop just before the bus stop. A small tidal wave of water washed over the sidewalk, forcing Stiles, in his fucking thin _hoodie_ and _pumps_ , to step back. Swearing under his breath, Derek wound down the window. “Get in!” he yelled, eyes narrowing as freezing water started to spray inside the car.

Stiles just stared at him.

Sometimes, Derek just had to stop and wonder _how_ _any_ of them were still alive. Really. _How_.

“ _Get. In,”_ he repeated, pointing at first at Stiles, then the passenger seat.

You could see each and every emotion flash across Stiles’ face as he realised what Derek was saying. Finally, after a minute’s thinking – a whole minute, for crying out loud, in which he slowly got closer to getting pneumonia – Stiles shoved his rucksack higher up his shoulder and ran around the car, flinging the door open and diving in. He sprawled across the seat, legs knotted, arms flailing for balance and rucksack trapped beneath him, before he managed to stay balanced long enough to grab the door handle and tug it shut.

Derek gave him a few minutes to pant, wriggle off his bag and get upright, before saying, “What the hell were you doing?”

“Getting to school, it’s kinda something us teenagers do, yanno, we can’t all sit around-”

“I _meant_ ,” Derek said, interrupting before Stiles became unstoppable, “What were you doing _out there_. In the _rain_. And the _minus temperatures_.”

“Um, waiting for the _bus_ ,” Stiles said, shaking himself like a dog (and the irony wasn’t lost on Derek) before turning and giving him a look that made it clear who Stiles thought the idiot here really was.

Somehow, he _didn’t_ seem to think it was the one who was soaking wet.

Derek matched the stare easily. He’d had practise. “ _Why_.”

A flash of embarrassment covered Stiles’ features for a second, and the stare was replaced with a grimace. If it had been anyone else, Derek would have felt a warm pride at that – but he didn’t, not with Stiles, soaking wet and quite possibly getting _ill_. “Jeep’s broken,” Stiles admitted, sheepishly. “Apparently, her chasse didn’t like all the off-terrain driving I’ve been doing recently.” _Chasing after you werewolves_. He didn’t say it – it was too obvious, and made Derek feel a flash of guilt all the same.

“It’s a jeep,” he couldn’t help but say. “Aren’t jeeps meant to be _good_ with off-terrain?”

“It’s an _old_ jeep,” Stiles corrected, one finger waving, the other trying to brush water from his head. “Old jeeps aren’t good with _anything_. It’s amazing I can get to school in that thing without it deciding to lie down and _die.”_

Okay, that Derek couldn’t argue with. “Couldn’t your dad give you a lift?”

“Nah, he’s got to get up early at the moment,” Stiles said. He’d given up trying to dry himself, leaving water droplets covering him, face shining slightly in the weak car light.

There was one droplet of water that was clinging to Stiles’ lower lip, shining, resting on the curve at the corner of his mouth. As Stiles grinned, smiled, pouted, talked, it moved, occasionally sliding across the rough red skin, leaving it shining. And Derek’s eyes seemed to be fixed on it.

With an internal moan, and thought of _for fuck’s sake what are you_ doing, Derek forced himself to look at Stiles’ eyes. And his eyes _only_.

...that wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be.

“So rather than calling up someone else, say, _Scott_ , you decided you’d try and catch pneumonia instead?” he asked, mouth moving in self-preservation. Keep the conversation going. Keep focused on something else. Yeah, that should work.

Stiles opened his mouth. And shut it again. Grinning shamelessly, Derek raised an eyebrow, expressing amusement at how _Stiles_ was _wordless_. Stiles pulled a face back, and Derek couldn’t stop himself laughing, once, short and quiet, eyes flicking outside quickly.

“It didn’t occur to me, okay?” Stiles said stubbornly. “I have a little problem with focusing, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

“Oh trust me, I’ve noticed,” Derek said, grin still in place. He looked back at Stiles, to find the kid watching him still, lips formed into a pout, drop still clinging; he could just swipe his thumb... or tongue- 

_Eyes! Look at the eyes, for crying out loud!_

He shoved his gaze up to Stiles’ eyes, and hoped the kid would start wittering, or take offence, or something. But he wasn’t saying anything. He was... _sitting_ there, dripping on Derek’s seat, pouting mouth falling limp, eyes wide and, and _stunned_ , and why was _he_ stunned, he wasn’t the twenty two year old with a teenager dripping in their car when they could have, _should_ have easily driven right by...

This train of thought was doing nothing good.

Suddenly, Stiles was blinking, clearing his throat, and looking away, out of the window. He finally – _finally_ – started talking. “What are _you_ doing out in the rain, then, if it’s such a stupid thing to be doing?” he said, and though it was clear he was trying to sounds accusatory, he just sounded like a stroppy kid.

Able to focus again – kind of – Derek smirked. “First off, I’m in a car. That’s not being stupid.” Well, it was, he’d thought as much earlier – but Stiles wasn’t going to know that. “And I needed to do a groceries run.” He shoved a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the bag of what was, he realised, now probably gradually solidifying milk. This kid fucked with _everything_ in Derek’s life.

Twisting his whole body around, Stiles peered into the back seat. His mouth fell open at the sight of the brown paper bag – and consequently, the drop of water finally lost its grip and fell. Derek most determinedly was not disappointed. “You buy _groceries?_ ”

For a second or two, Derek’s brain whirred away blankly, before something clicked into place. “Ohhh,” he half growled, head rolling to the side, “let me guess – you thought I ate wild hares and dormice and elk and deer I hunted myself, cooked over a blazing campfire whilst I howled at the moon and brooded in the shadows?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Stiles said. He didn’t even sound repentant about it.

Derek sighed out, eyes rising heavenwards. “Why do you all seem to think I’m some kind of dark, mysterious hobo?” he asked.

Stiles’ light chuckle dragged Derek’s gaze across to him. He was grinning widely, eyes shining. “Cos, dude, you _really_ kinda are,” he said.

His grin was infectious. Derek could feel it, worming its way onto his face too, a warm glow in his chest that felt like _happiness_. That wasn’t on. He would _not_ grin back.

He briefly wrestled with it, before letting his lips twitch once. After that, the scowl regained control. And now, time for a change in topic, so he didn’t have to see _that grin_.

“School, you said?” Derek asked, hands reaching back for the gearstick and steering wheel. Driving was a reasonable distraction.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said.

Curtly, all attention currently spent on trying to remember how to get to the school, Derek nodded and kicked the car into gear, pulling away.

Neither of them really spoke on the journey – it wasn’t all that long anyway, and Derek needed to focus on not crashing, or losing the road in the monsoon, and Stiles... Stiles was just being silent. For the life of him, Derek couldn’t think why. Had he freaked him out? He didn’t think Stiles was still scared of him. He _should_ still be scared of him, of course, he was dangerous, but –

Shut _up,_ Derek.

It took fifteen minutes to get across the town to the school, with the roads so clear. The area around the front of the school was slightly busier, buses and cars pulled up to let the kids out, running with bags over their heads, the folders of less interesting subjects being used as makeshift umbrellas as they sprinted to cover. The moment the car stopped, Stiles grabbed his bag and reached for the door handle, but Derek – and part of him was questioning every movement he made – grabbed Stiles’ upper arm, holding him in place.

Stiles just sighed, sitting back. “You’ve really got to stop the with manhandling, it’s a little bit-”

“When’s your car gonna be fixed?” Derek asked sharply. He was on a no-parking zone; he didn’t have time for Stiles’ mini essays.

“I don’t know, I think Thursday, why?”

“I’ll give you a lift tomorrow, okay?”

“...You will?”

 _I will?_ Oh, because this can only end well.

Look. Stiles is – because he’s Scott’s best friend – he’s part of the pack. Under the alpha’s protection. That means not letting the kid get pneumonia. Right?

“I will,” Derek said, voice sounding determined in a way that slightly stunned even him.

Stiles stared at him for a full minute, eyes wide. Derek half wanted to take a picture of them, to analyse them later, because right then? Fuck knows what Stiles was thinking. “Okay,” he said eventually, nodding his head sharply. “Sure. Wait, do you know where – of course you do, you come into my bedro- _right okay!_ Well see you tomorrow, eight-thirty, thanks!”

And with a half forced grin, and a sudden tug that broke Derek’s grip on his arm, Stiles flung his bag over his shoulder and dived out of the car, door slamming shut behind him in the wind.

For what was most probably too long, Derek didn’t move, just watched Stiles through the window, hood up, barely jogging through the rain towards the school. Scott appeared, running up to Stiles and Derek didn’t miss how his beta’s eyes settled on his car.

He couldn’t stop himself. He eavesdropped, shamelessly.

“ _Dude, what were you doing in Derek’s car?”_

_“I was wet, he gave me a lift. C’mon, let’s-”_

_“But Derek!”_

_“He was just giving me a_ lift, _okay? Sheesh! And can we_ please _get out of the rain now?”_

Stiles was grabbing Scott’s elbow, forcibly dragging his friend towards the warmth of the school. And Derek decided that was his cue to leave.

He almost ran over a domestic cat on the way back, so engrossed in trying to figure out the cause of every nuance in Stiles’ tone of voice. Swearing at himself, he forced himself to focus on the road.

Two minutes later, and he was trying to understand Stiles’ smiles.

*

The next day, when he turned up outside the Stilinski’s house, Stiles was waiting for him on the porch.

Nothing in the world could have stopped Derek smiling then. Stiles grinned back, before swinging his bag over his shoulder, and sprinting to the Camaro through the rain.

**

Stiles – being Stiles – had left his sports bag in the back of Derek’s car, on the third and final day of using the camaro as a taxi.

Derek realised it as soon as he got back to the rubble that, yes, he still insisted on calling a house. Got out the car, locked it, and somehow still managed to have enough mental capacity after sitting in a car that stank of Stiles for half an hour to check there wasn’t anything left in it – and lo, there it was, sitting innocently on his back seat.

He took it into the house, put it on the couch and sat staring at it.

It meant, he assumed, that either Stiles would come to get it, when his car was fixed. Whenever that was.

Or, he could, of course, go give it to Stiles now.

But it would be dangerous to go to Stiles’ house. His dad was the sheriff, and even though Derek _had_ been cleared, he didn’t quite think the dad would be all that jazzed if he showed up with a bag full of Stiles’ used clothes.

On the other hand... lacrosse _was_ important to Stiles, and he might worry about having lost his kit... all those pads and things couldn’t be cheap...

With a sudden burst of decision, Derek rose to his feet, grabbed the bag, and headed straight back to his car.

The journey to the Stilinski house consisted of him swearing at himself, pulling over, turning around, and then making illegal U-turns to make his way back into Beacon Hills, to Stiles...

No, wait, to Stiles’ _house_ , not just to Stiles, he wasn’t that...

...yeah, okay, perhaps he was.

By the time he actually arrived, it was almost pitch black, so he deemed it safe enough to park out the front.

On the other side of the road, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

And he definitely wasn’t stupid enough to ring the front door.

So, naturally, he found himself on the space of the roof exactly above Stiles’ window.

Looping the bag over his shoulder, he grabbed the edge of the roof and swung himself through the window, just open enough for him to slip through and land nimbly on the desk. Not open enough for the bag to fit through _as well_ as him. He didn’t drop it, but as it got caught he did have a moment of thinking it had wrenched his shoulder from its socket. He muffled his curse, and wincing, twisted around to push the window open further. His back wasn’t meant to bend this way, but it was this, or fall backwards through the window.

By the time he managed it, he was really starting to hate the bag. And the window.

And Stiles, for leaving his fucking stuff in Derek’s car in the first place.

Yeah, he _really_ hated Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t laughing at him, he realised, as he threw the bag onto the floor. Which could only mean Stiles wasn’t there. There was no way Stiles would pass up such an easy opportunity to mock him.

He was... yeah, he was disappointed. Even if he was the one being laughed at, it meant that Stiles was having a good time, thanks to him. He could survive being laughed at. And then there was always telling Stiles to shut up, Stiles replying with ridiculous sarcasm, the inventive yet utterly pointless threats, and they’d part half-scowling, half-laughing, and Derek would already be planning how to make it happen all over again.

But Stiles wasn’t here, and that wasn’t going to happen...

...unless he waited for him?

That sounded... tempting.

He’d done it before, waited in the corner of the room until Stiles had appeared. But he’d had a real reason then, life-or-death situation, and... and he’s Stiles’ friend now, isn’t he? Surely that means he can stay and say a word or two, rather than drop the bag and run?

He stood there, the middle of the room, waiting, undecided, until he heard footsteps on the stairs.

With a sudden rush of fear, he threw the bag onto the bed and jumped onto the desk and out of the window, swinging himself back up onto the roof, where he’d been lying minutes before.

He lay there, breathless and terrified, waiting to hear Stiles find his bag. He couldn’t quite explain why, he just felt like he should. To check that he finds it?

 _Finds_ it? Derek had dumped it on the middle of the kid’s _bed_.

But still, he lay there, on the roof, eyes closed and listening.

He heard the shuffled footsteps and the yawn as Stiles entered the room, and the click of the door behind him. Something – a book, perhaps – landed on the desk. He was tired, heart slow, breathing deeply, and Derek could catch the sharp intake of breath as he turned and saw the bag on his desk. His feet shuffled on the spot, and there was a pause – he’d guess that Stiles was looking around the room.

“Wha- how – uhhh...” he was walking now, around the room, pulling open cupboards like he expected Derek to be hiding in one of them, like fucking Mr Tumnus. Derek’s lips twitched, and, almost unconsciously, he found himself shifting, moving his weight, hands behind his head and legs bent, getting comfortable.

“You... oh, that’s just so fucking typical, I swear you’re just some figment of my _frigging imagination_ , because this is _fucking ridiculous_ – DEREK I swear to GOD YOU MUST BE HERE SOMEWHERE-”

Derek rolled inwards just in time, as Stiles flung his window further open and shoved his head out, looking, of course, straight up first of all. To his slight surprise, Derek found himself laughing silently, his whole body shaking on the roof tiles.

Beneath him, he heard Stiles sigh, the wood creaking as he tightened his grip on the window sill.

“Oh, no, of course not,” he muttered, and he stepped back inside, closing the window properly. Derek could still him perfectly, now on his side, ear pressed down. “Forget werewolf, more like ghost, poltergeist, just appear then _fuck off_ again, if he’s ever here at all or gets the fucking woodland creatures to do it all for him, because God forbid he ever actually lets himself be seen, oh no _that_ wouldn’t do it’s all cryptic messages and random appearances and _living in the shadows_ because sunlight and human contact is _poisonous_ , oh no _I_ can’t be normal and not-creepy and _not fucking mysterious man_ because I’m DEREK FUCKING HALE-”

“STILES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, SOME OF US ACTUALLY WANT TO SLEEP-”

“SORRY DAD! SEE YOU TOMORROW!”

“I’VE GOT TO GET UP EARLY AGAIN, DON’T FORGET, YOU’RE MAKING BREAKFAST FOR ONE AGAIN!”

“I KNOW! NOW SHUT UP, SOME OF US ACTUALLY WANT TO SLEEP!”

Derek heard the dad chuckle, a few rooms away, and Stiles laugh once, under his breath, before he started to move again. He wasn’t saying anything now, his heart rate slowing, breathing getting softer, slower, and material rustling as he got changed into his pyjamas. Rustle of pages, as he opened a book, and the creak of bedsprings as Stiles fell backwards onto the bed. Creaking and even _more_ rustling and even some muttered swearing as he, no doubt, tried to get under the duvet he’d just landed on.

Then it was silent, just deep breathing, and the occasional page turning.

It was a peaceful sound to listen to.

And, somehow, Derek found himself lying on his back, right above Stiles’ room, listening to it until the final page turned, the book was set down, and the click of the light switch sounded.

The click was the first noise that really marked the passing of time since he’d first lie down. He prised his eyes open to see a thin sliver of moon high above him. He’d been there far, far too long. Listening to a kid at least five years younger read. In bed.

Oh god, he was such a stalker...

This _wasn’t_ going to become a thing. No. _No_. He had _limits,_ dammit!

With a sigh, he pressed the base of his palms into his eyes, rubbed his face, and pushed himself up. He landed noiselessly on the grass, and walked, half-asleep, back to his car.

Back in his own bed, at _home_ , when he tried to sleep – the world felt horribly quiet.

**

It was almost ridiculous how tuned-in to _that scent_ Derek was, that he could tell that _he_ was in his house, even whilst driving towards his house through the road through the centre of a herb-filled forest, with garlic bread on the seat beside him, in a car _very_ recently filled with gasoline.

Okay, perhaps a bit more than ridiculous.

But it meant he wasn’t surprised by the old blue jeep, and could carefully pull up alongside it rather than swerve and try not to actually crash into it, which he’d done with Scott’s car once.

Slightly confused – okay, let’s be honest here, a _lot_ confused – Derek looked across to the clock in the dashboard, frowning at the small LED numbers that were definitely telling him it was half eleven at night. Half eleven, and he had Stiles’ car outside his house and Stiles himself inside it.

He didn’t bother trying to come up with a reason as to _why_. He’d learnt by now that trying to understand Stiles’ thought processes was more than a bit ridiculous. He didn’t waste time, just grabbed the bag, shoved the bit of garlic bread he’d been nibbling on into his mouth, and headed in.

He dropped the bag in the hallway, tools he’d bought clunking as they hit each other and the floor, and listened, expecting yells of... who knows, _something_ , or footsteps jumping about to escape from where Stiles was stealing his books, or... gods knew, actually.

He didn’t hear any of that, anyway. He heard snoring.

Truly frowning now, Derek walked, quietly as he could, into the blackened area he’d re-christened as the lounge by putting a second hand sofa in it.

Said sofa was now occupied by a snoring Stiles Stilinski.

And apparently he slept like he did everything else – loudly, and taking up as much space as he could. He was lying on a couch in a way that, if it was anyone else, would be classed as defying gravity. But somehow, Stiles was managing to hold on in a strange kind of balance – one leg hanging off the front, an arm over the back, head resting almost impossibly on the very edge of the arm rest. The only limb that looked vaguely logical was the hand lying on his chest, half curled, relaxed, rising and falling as he breathed.

And he was smiling.

It was... yeah, it was kinda cute.

When he snored, his whole face scrunched up, eyes tightening, nose wrinkling, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. Then, as if someone had clicked rewind, his face smoothed out, relaxing, looking calmer that Derek had ever seen him. The distractions and frantic movement that usually defined the boy in the day weren’t there as he dreamt.

It made Derek smile.

He walked around the side of the couch, and crouched beside him. He reached out a hand, fingers hovering over Stiles’ face, meaning to rest his hand there lightly to try and wake him up, before he remembered – he’s not allowed to do that. The smile fell from his face, momentarily, before he let his hand settle on the sleeping kid’s shoulder, instead. “Hey, Stiles,” he muttered, gently nudging his shoulder, “C’mon, wake up...”

“Mmm...”

“C’mon Stiles, up you get...”

He didn’t open his eyes, rather scrunched them tighter. “Der’k?” he managed to mutter, through lips that barely opened.

Derek smiled. “Yeah, Derek. Mind telling me why you’re sleeping on my couch?”

Stiles rolled outwards, towards the edge, and the hand on the back fell down to press against his eyes. “I was... I was...” 

He slipped slightly, and Derek put a hand against his side, lightly pushing him back into the centre of the sofa. Stiles didn’t even respond. “Was looking for...”

Things started to make sense now. “Scott?” Derek suggested.

Stiles made some low humming noise as he stretched and rolled over to face Derek, that Derek took as an affirmation. He had to push Stiles back up the couch again, to stop him falling off. Stiles’ hand moved, lightly resting against Derek’s wrist where it rested against his hip. “G’t tired...” he breathed, heart rate slow, and eyes relaxing again. His hand slipped, brushing along Derek’s forearm.

Derek’s thumb was moving of its own accord, rubbing at Stiles’ side, a soft circle against the cotton of the top and the hipbone beneath. He stayed perfectly still, hand in place, thumb brushing, and Stiles’ hand on his arm, until Stiles snored quietly. Then he carefully pulled his arm back, leaving Stiles’ hand to fall back against his own chest, as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped back.

He looked around the empty room, the holes in the walls, and made up his mind.

Over the past few days, he’d started to buy in essentials, logical things, and fill up the cupboards and shelves with them. What he wanted now, he was sure he’d put in the small cupboard by the back of the stairs, and he had to push rifles and soup cans and a deflated air mattress to the side before he finally found it.

It was thin and worn, from a charity shop, but it’d work well enough.

When he returned to the lounge, Stiles was _already_ half off the couch again, snoring loudly and smiling widely. A foot was twitching, and goosebumps were starting to show on his arm. Derek let the blanket fall open, and draped it across him. Guessing Stiles wouldn’t like to be trapped inside it, he didn’t tuck it in, just contented himself to lifting the lose leg back onto the couch, and pushing him right to the back.

Hopefully, he’s stay _on_ now _._

He let his hand linger on Stiles’ shoulder again, and muttered, “Sleep well,” before heading upstairs to his own bed. Well, mattress. He’d tried his bed. It’d collapsed beneath him. That was something for his next trip to Ikea.

He kept his ears open for a thud throughout the night, just in case. And it occurred to him, and he slipped into sleep himself, ears intently focused on the slow breathing of the boy on the floor below, that this was the sound he’d been missing for the past seven nights.

*

He was up a dawn. Always was, always would be, most likely. He woke up, and let his plans for the day fill his head before he opened his eyes, and fell off the thick mattress rather than elegantly rise from it.

Bed. Top of the list.

Full moon tonight, so perhaps check in on the pack. Lydia too, in case? Maybe.

See about getting a generator, before getting a more permanent source of electricity.

Fridge. Fruit juice and milk and cheese. Microwave. Toaster. Marmalade. _Poptarts._

Perhaps look about getting running _hot_ water, too.

He was halfway down the stairs, buttoning up his jeans and top hanging over his arm before he remembered the teenager asleep on his couch. Even then, he only remembered because he finally heard the thump he’d been up half the night waiting for.

“Gah- awww, ow, _fu-uh-uck.”_

Derek grinned, and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed an apple from the box of fruit he replenished daily, and, after thinking, grabbed a banana. He stuck the apple in his mouth, and headed to where Stiles was _still_ swearing. He leant on the doorway, smirking to himself as he watched the kid half-wrestle with the blanket as he tried to get upright. It took a good few seconds before he was on his feet and standing tall.

Well, as tall as he could get.

Derek bit loudly into the apple. He grinned between chews as Stiles literally jumped, and spun around. It was all made ten times better by how he somehow managed to get his feet tangled up in the blanket and almost fall over _again_. That grin stayed firmly in place as he bit into the apple a second time, enjoying having Stiles staring at him in shock. “Good morning,” he said.

Stiles scowled. “Did no one tell you it’s rude to eat with your mouth full?”

“Not a morning person, then,” Derek mused, before swallowing and taking another bite. He knew he should probably say something, but, well... it was more fun letting Stiles’ tongue run off without him.

“Not a morning person? Oh, I’m an amazing morning person! I stun people with my perfection in mornings! I’m Einstein before the sun rises! But, yanno, _falling off someone else’s couch onto an ashy and splinter-filled floor whilst cocooned in a blanket_ tends to put a bit of _cramp_ in waking up. Or is that just me?”

Wordlessly, Derek held out the banana. Stiles’ face lit up, as he stepped forwards to grab it. “Thanks!” he said cheerfully, splitting the end and peeling it all the way open. Derek snorted at the now familiar inconsistency to Stiles’ moods.

A few seconds were just spent chewing in silence, before Stiles swallowed a huge mouthful noisily (no surprises there) and began, close to awkwardly, “Um, last night, I was, um-”

“Looking for Scott, you told me,” Derek nodded, spitting apple pips out of his mouth and biting into the core.

“Oh, dude, seriously the whole thing?” Stiles moaned.

“Waste not, want not,” Derek replied carelessly. He’d been brought up to eat everything put before him. He wasn’t gonna change that habit soon, not even for Stiles.

“Why am I really not all that surprised... anyway, um – wait, I told you that?”

“Kinda,” Derek said. “You were almost asleep at the time.”

He watched as Stiles’ eyes drifted across to the sofa, frowning. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered, and Derek assumed he’d remembered. “Yeah!” he repeated, louder, and most _definitely_ offensive, as a finger swung in Derek’s direction. He raised an eyebrow, eyes staring first at the finger, then up at Stiles. The kid didn’t so much as swallow with fear as he continued, “Where were you last night? I waited for hours on that couch! Well, okay, perhaps an hour. Half an hour-”

“I was out in the forest, perfecting my creeper brooding skills,” Derek said, deadpan. Stiles stared at him, silenced.

And then he laughed.

Warmth coursed through Derek, and he smiled back as he watched Stiles have to lean against the armrest on the couch to stay upright. Strangely content, he held the apple stalk between his teeth as he pulled on his top, world blacking out momentarily, save for Stiles’ laughter. When he could see again, he took the stalk from his mouth and asked, “Why did you think Scott would be here, anyway?”

Stiles’ laughter drifted into a chuckle before stopping, and he looked at Derek blankly, smile lingering. “What?” he asked, confused.

“Scott. Here. Why you think so?” Derek rephrased, absently shoving the pips and stalk into his pocket to be binned later.

He hadn’t expected the question to throw Stiles so off-kilter, but it had. He was stuttering, eyes darting all over the place as he tried to answer. “Well, um – it’s the full moon tonight, isn’t it?” he said eventually.

“Correct, now keep going.”

“Well, I thought you might have some kinda, yanno, “pack meeting” or something-” and yes, he made quotation marks with his hands, which really shouldn’t be that cute “- to prepare or some shit and give helpful tips on control like, if you remember, you definitely said you would, though admittedly that was a while ago now-”

“Pack meetings?” Derek echoed, knowing that if he let Stiles continue, he’d just keep going. “We don’t have pack meetings.”

Stiles scowled, hands frozen mid-wave from when he’d been talking. “Well you should. Pack meetings. Get on it.”

“It sounds like a ridiculous idea.”

“It’s not! It’s not, and you know it – you all always say that, and yet, my ideas always turn out brilliantly. You should all just accept that my ideas are awesome. Would save time.”

“Mm-hm, right, yes,” Derek said, nodding along with the rant, lips curled, quite happily watching Stiles go on and on. Stiles nodded too, and kept going, and, somehow, the two of them caught each other’s eye, and smiles split into grins.

Stiles broke first, chuckling, stopping the endless nodding and looking away.

“Does – does your dad know you stayed out overnight?” Derek asked, grabbing for the nearest floating conversation topic.

“No, because _I_ didn’t know – holy mother of shit, dad!” Stiles all but howled, clawing at his pocket and then _undeniably_ screeching upon finding it empty. “My cell, did you see my cell last night?”

Derek shook his head, smiling all over again. In fact, had he even stopped, yet?

“Ahhhhh oh god oh _god_ he’s gonna murder me – I’ll get Scott as an alibi, yeah, I’ll do that – Must have left my phone at home, I _think-_ ”

“Go,” Derek ordered, tilting his head towards the door, grinning at the frantic scrabbling Stiles was doing, trying to move fast but not _quite_ getting the limb co-ordination right. As the teen managed to move past him, moving almost fast, he shoved the banana skin into Derek’s hand, and vanished with a yell of, “Thank you!”

“See you soon, Stiles,” Derek called back, and his smiled widened even _more_ (and seriously, how was that even _possible_ ) as Stiles waved back over his shoulder, swinging himself into the blue jeep.

Derek waited until the blue jeep vanished through the trees before chucking the banana skin, pips and stalk out into the forest, all the time considering what he’d said. See you soon...

Because it was starting to sink in that, yeah, perhaps Stiles was becoming a permanent fixture in his life, along with Scott, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, Boyd – his strange excuse for a pack. And, if he couldn’t have Stiles in quite the way he _wanted_ to – he could settle for that friendship, for the hope that came with it.

Turning back inside, smiling fading to something softer than the grin Stiles had put there, his eyes drifted to the floor. Ashy and splinter filled? Seemed like sanding the floor was climbing its way up his list of things to do.

He picked up the bag he’d abandoned last night and carried it to his newly appointed workshop, and started to organise the news tools he’d bought. He’d go to the DIY store that afternoon, get a sander.

And, at the back of his mind, ideas for the pack meetings started to form...

**

Derek didn’t tell Stiles about it face-to-face. He knew the smugness would kill him.

Calling him wasn’t much better.

“Sorry, sorry, just say that again?”

Derek gritted his teeth, and let his claws bite into table he was leaning on. “Get. Your ass. Over here. On Saturday.”

“No, no, it was the other bit, what was that phrase you used, again... something about some kind of get-together... just tell me it again.”

He wasn’t getting out of this, he really wasn’t. Rolling his eyes heavenwards, and desperately trying to remember what he saw in the guy, he growled out, “Pre-full moon pack meeting.”

There was a victorious click of fingers on the other end of the line. “ _That_ was it! Hm, it sounds so familiar...”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek growled. Wood started to chip away in his grip.

Through the phone, he heard Stiles’ heart rate spike. Fear, he supposed, and he smiled vindictively. “Okay, okay, fine, sourwolf. I was just joking.”

“And _I_ was just planning how best to disembowel you if you’re still carrying on with the ‘I told you so’ spiel on Saturday,” Derek growled back.

He was having serious problems with talking legibly. His fangs were pushing against his gums almost painfully, a result of a far too long list of factors including an impending full moon, chewed-through cables, moths in his only – and new – wardrobe, a plumber who couldn’t have an IQ above ten, and now, _Stilinski_. If it was possible to kill someone through a phone, he’d be doing so there and then.

Rather than showing more signs of fear, like Derek was hoping for, Stiles chuckled.

Derek closed his eyes. His hands relaxed on the table, and his mouth stopped hurting. He breathed out, slowly.

His mouth even twitched into a smile.

“Please, you disembowel me, and Scott – even though he’s the biggest dumbass _in_ this pack of ours – will hand you over to _my dad the sheriff_ so quick your tail will fall out your little furry arse,” Stiles chuckled. Distantly, Derek could hear the squeak of the desk chair as Stiles spun around.

With a final heavenward glance, Derek gave in, and smiled. “A werewolf can dream,” he protested, lifting up his hand to try and prize out the wood splinters that had got lodged beneath his nails.

“Sure thing, Fido. You sort out the entertainment, I’ll bring the whiskey and curly fries!”

“And _Scott!_ ” Derek desperately yelled, but it was no use, he could hear Stiles laughing into the phone, pulling it away from his face. “Make sure Scott comes!”

“Yeah, yeah, wolfman. See you then!”

And he hung up.

Derek stared at the phone in his hands for a while, thoroughly exasperated. He had a dreadful feeling this pre-full moon meeting _really_ wasn’t going to go as he’d planned. Eventually, he slipped it into his pockets, and turned his attention to his nails. To go from ready-to-kill to calm that quickly... he hadn’t shown that much control since... before. Before _everything_.

And that was... good?

Yeah. Let’s go with good.

*

When Stiles showed up, 5 o’clock Saturday night with Scott and two bags filled purely with alcohol and bags of skittles, Derek will forever maintain he was completely entitled to grab Stiles by the collar and shove him up against the wall. Scott’s protests don’t hold up, as Derek’s not even sure he knows what ‘hyperbolic’ means.

“ _This isn’t a fucking frat house, Stiles!”_

“Whoa, hey, I know, man, I mean, you’re fixing the place up very nicely, not frat house like at all, it’s beautiful, really, I wouldn’t dare-”

“ _Stiles!”_

Scott was laughing behind him, but he wasn’t listening to his idiotic beta. He was watching Stiles, waiting for the next ridiculous excuse to come pouring from his mouth, mind planning what he’d yell back – but Stiles wasn’t replying. He could feel Stiles’ heart thudding, could _hear_ it, the quick, sharp breaths, the fragile chest rising and falling fast beneath his hands – matching his own. But Stiles, for the first time in what was likely to be living memory, wasn’t saying anything.

The longer they stayed there, the longer Derek held him pressed against the wall, leaning on Stiles’ shoulders, the more Derek started to realise how _close_ they were. Which was so terribly clichéd and ridiculous, because they’d been here so many times before – he seemed to end up threatening Stiles or throwing him against a wall every time they met – but, for some reason, it was only just striking him that he could feel Stiles’ _breath_ against him, fuck it, he could count eyelashes, see the patterns in his irises and other poetic shit like that, and he’s probably been staring into those eyes a bit too long now but it’s better than staring at his lips for too long, which he knows is his one other option.

God knows what’d happen then.

Probably something biological that’d be _really_ embarrassing.

Stiles looked up, meeting Derek’s gaze so suddenly that his breath caught in his throat. The kid was grinning almost manically, a wild look in his eyes that made Derek’s heart stutter. “What’s the threat going to be this time, Sour Wolf?” Stiles asked, sounding breathless. “Lose a limb? Concussion against a steering wheel?”

Forcing himself to breathe, Derek twisted his features from whatever blank – or heaven help him, hungry – look that he’d been wearing before, back into a glare. “I’m sure I could come up with something more inventive than that.”

“Really? You haven’t shown much creativity so far-”

“Yeach! Mother _fucker!”_

 There was just enough time to see a matching panic in Stiles’ eyes before they snapped their heads to the side, both moving simultaneously towards the sound of Scott’s cry of pain.

“Jesus, Derek, I thought you were meant to be making this place habitable!”

He was on the steps up to the porch, scowling at his hand and pulling splinters from it.

There wasn’t any thinking behind the movement – Derek just turned to meet Stiles’ gaze. Within seconds, both of them were smiling, then grinning, then laughing. He didn’t know if it was from the snap in tension, or just general humour at the oblivious _thing_ that was their mutual acquaintance. But to be honest... he didn’t really care. They were laughing, that was enough.

 As Derek turned to hide his laughter from Scott, he heard Stiles say, “Scott, sometimes, I seriously question how you’re still alive.”

“It’s not my fault, go teach your boyfriend what habitable means before you have a go at me!”

If Derek froze at the word ‘boyfriend’, he was going to chalk it up to shock at hearing Scott say a long word like ‘habitable’.

Apparently, Stiles was as stunned about that as he was, because it was a few seconds before Stiles replied with, “Just because you’re not man, or wolf enough to deal with a splinter-”

“All right, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, inside, before I have to call time-out,” Derek sighed, turning back to face them.

“Did you just make a pop-culture reference?” Stiles gasped, and Derek found himself pondering the now eternal problem of whether to laugh or punch him. Again. “You did! You _can_ be human! Scott, Scott, did you hear that-”

“Stiles, get _in the house.”_

“Is the booze allowed in? I’m not going in unless the booze is allowed in. Or the DVDs. _Especially_ the DVDs. I mean, I brought Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and Fight Club and 24 and I’m _not_ leaving them alone, out in the cold-”

“Fine! Yes! They’re allowed!” Derek yelled, finally breaking. “Now _go,”_ he ordered, putting a hand on the back of Stiles’ shoulders and shoving him inside. He didn’t go silently, of course, but – Derek was kinda glad he didn’t. His fingers fell from Stiles’ shoulder once he was out of reach, not a second before.

“Dude,” Scott chuckled, coming up level with Derek and, unlike him, totally ignoring Stiles’ endless babbling. “He _so_ has you whipped.”

“... _What_?”

“What?” Scott echoed, blinking up at him, face slowly going red. “I said nothing,” he said confidently. “Nothing, okay? Nothing!” he finished the last word more as a desperate yell than anything else, before almost running into the house.

Derek stepped forwards, missed the doorway, and slammed his head into the doorframe. And again. No matter how red Scott had turned at his comment – he was far too certain that he’d turned redder.

Because god help him – he was starting to realise _exactly_ how true that was.

And it _really_ didn’t help that he could still smell the fading traces of Stiles’ scent on his finger.

*

Erica and Isaac showed up ten minutes later, and apparently Stiles had contacted them, too, because they each had their own bag of drinkables. Boyd, 20 minutes after them, was exactly the same. By the time _Jackson_ arrived, there was so much alcohol in the house that _Scott_ was tipsy by the end of the night, a snoring, rosy-cheeked bundle of fangs, fur and claws curled up in the corner of Derek’s living room. Jackson wasn’t much better, sprawled in front of the fire. And Stiles... Stiles was on Derek’s bed upstairs, locked in as soon as the moon rose.

It wasn’t what Derek had planned. At all. Yet somehow, it was a routine that stuck.

Two months later, Stiles showed up alone first in the jeep, meeting Derek where he was waiting on the porch. Derek couldn’t even remember what they talked about, later, or how long they were talking for, because the warm contentedness of _that_ moment was blown from the water when Scott turned up in his own car, with Alison in tow. He exploded, yelled at Scott for inviting someone who was human, not pack, and when Scott yelled back that Stiles was human, and therefore technically not pack too, Derek had no answer.

“Well, then, just, _warn_ me next time,” he half-yelled, before turning and stomping into the house to unabashedly sulk in the kitchen, until Stiles came and fetched him.

Instead of let Allison sleep with Stiles in his room, he brought down the actual mattress and the inflatable mattress, putting them in the living room. He told himself that the pack was well trained enough now for it to be safe.

He almost managed to convince himself that the green fury on Scott’s face as the two humans had prepared to sleep together _hadn’t_ matched his own expression.

 A week before the next full moon, Allison asked to bring Lydia. She said that Stiles had said that it wouldn’t be a problem.

So of course, Lydia showed, bringing more alcohol and more DVDs to watch.

When Jackson brought Danny, a few months after that, Derek just raised an eyebrow, and waited for the inevitable, “I checked with Stiles, he said it was fine.”

There was no longer any ‘pack meeting’ aspect to it, if there ever _had_ been. Scott, Jackson, Isaac, Erica and Boyd, under the supervising eye of Derek, stayed entirely docile when the full moon rose, more like dogs than wolves as they snuggled up to tipsy girlfriends and/or best mates, playing Mario Cart or spin the bottle with only slightly more fang than usual, or curling up near the open fire and the small TV as they watched the DVD picked from everyone’s selections. They’d fall asleep wherever they sat, whenever they got tired; Scott and Allison stole the air mattress, Danny would be lengthways across the second-hand, 90s era armchair, Lydia and Jackson would be curled up by corner, and Erica, Isaac and Boyd would steal the spot by the fire.

And Derek... somehow, Derek would find himself on one end of the couch, Stiles, more often than not, leaning back against him, or with his feet on Derek’s lap.

In the morning, Derek would be the first awake, and he’d slip from the couch to make toast. The rest would join him, one at the time, Allison leaving first with a stolen Poptart in her mouth and an oblivious Scott still spread-eagled on the mattress. It varied who was the next in the kitchen, either Lydia or Stiles, the former after coffee before having a shower (which Derek finally had installed after Lydia’s first stay, and her shriek at ‘go skinny-dip in the lake’), the latter downing three Adderall and grabbing a banana, before shimmying onto a stall and talking, just talking. Danny would be next, joining the group and making something a lot more sophisticated than whatever Derek was by then wasting time doing. The actually-could-be-werewolves trio would soon appear to eat up anything that had been cooked within the next half hour, before vanishing off to Gods knew where, and Jackson or Scott would be the last, staggering in, usually, at around 10.30am.

They’d all be out the house by midday if it was the weekend, later if it was a school day, and therefore needing the place to hide out and skive. Either way, the night would end with Derek having been eaten and drunk out of house and home, with a considerably higher water bill than usual, a raging headache, and a slight smile on his face as he watched Stiles drive his Jeep, and a hung-over Scott, out of his driveway.

_“Dude, what’re you doing?”_

“ _Waving. At Derek.”_

 _“Oh, of_ course _– dude, can you please just-”_

_“D’you think my I’ll be able to get some more of that red wine stuff before my dad realises it’s gone, or-”_

_“-already, the rest of us are getting headaches just-”_

_“-Because he’ll be furious if I know I drank that, cos he got it from aunt-”_

_“-if it lasts much longer, I swear, Lydia’s gonna stage an intervention-”_

_“-and he hates her with a passion to rival the fiery ass of Lucifer, but she’s like this wine-maestro-”_

He’d listen to their bickering until they were out of range, smiling, before shutting the door and resuming work on whatever aspect of the house was up for renovating that day.

**

“Derek? Hey, _Derek!”_

She was snapping her fingers in front of his nose, whilst repeating his name in, apparently, as many different ways as she could come up with.

Without looking, his fastened his fist over her fingers, and squeezed. He waited until Erica gasped, before letting go and turning to look. Rather than ask, he raised his eyebrows.

“Nice tough love there, boss,” she muttered, shaking her hand out and glaring up at him through the thick eyelashes she still insisted in sporting. “Jeez, not even like it was my fault.”

“You snapped your _fingers_ in my face, what did you _expect_ to happen?” he asked blandly. He got on with her well enough, but, sometimes, she could be a bit _too much_. She was, god help her, a second, more physically brutal Lydia.

She was a damn good beta.

“I didn’t expect you to doze out on me, for one thing,” Erica tutted, all disapproving wide, puppy-dog eyes. “What were you looking at-” As she swung around, gaze falling on the blanket still in a heap by the couch, Derek swung away, picking up the previously abandoned hammer and bag of nails and heading back into the kitchen. She was inhaling, smelling the air.

Knowing exactly what she could smell – he’d been breathing it in all yesterday and this morning – he winced, and breathed in deep, preparing himself for the inevitable onslaught.

 _“Oh_.” There went any hope she wouldn’t be able to identify whose scent it was. He firmly ignored her as she all but skipped into the kitchen after him, hoping that through denial, the problem might just go away.

It didn’t. The problem just leant against the table in the middle of the room before saying, “You realise, there’s a pool set up”

He decided to maintain the denial, and didn’t reply. Instead, he held one nail between his teeth, lined another up against the bottom corner of the back of the shelving unit (he’d long since given up on the Ikea instructions), and started hammering. Loudly. With what was probably more force than necessary. But hey.

“Isaac and Jackson both have money on you fucking Stiles by the end of next month, but I know you’re a blind prude who’s going to take at _least_ to the end of summer.”

He missed the nail by a good inch and the head of the hammer slammed into his thumb. “Jesus _fuck_ mother of-” The hammer clattered to the floor, narrowly missing his feet as he spun around on the spot, dancing out of the way of it and the cascade of nails falling from between his teeth and fingers as he shoved his busted hand into his armpit.

He’d hit a hole right through his palm. He had to have. It was the only explanation for this _pain_.

And Erica was _still smiling._ “You okay there, boss?”

Derek tried to growl instead of whimper, clenching his arm to tighten his grip on his hand. “Fucking _hell_ , I’m – I’m not going to, to _fuck_ Stiles, I mean – he’s – he’s-” _it shouldn’t be this hard to think up a reason not to slam Stiles against a wall and –_ “He’s underage, for crying out loud!”

“So... not denying that you _want_ to, then?”

There was a glint of victory in her smirk, and damn it, Derek had to give her that. He growled, and tentatively pulled his hand and peered at his thumb. As he watched, the joints in his thumb popped back into place. With a controlled poker face, he opened and closed his fist – it was working, at least, even if it was currently still hurting like _shit_.

“Don’t worry, everyone knows it anyway.”

Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes – he was desperately hoping that by the time he opened them again she’d be _gone,_ he hissed out, “Scott and Stiles went out, Stiles got drunk, and, not wanting to take him either back to the sheriff or _his_ house, Scott brought him here, so I let him crash on the couch. Okay?”

He opened his eyes. Erica hadn’t gone. She was nodding pensively. “Figures,” she said, and Derek started to hope that she might contribute some _sanity_. “After all, Scott’s bet that you’d hit that before the end of _this_ month. Well, looks like _he’s_ out of pocket.”

Or not.

“Why are you _here_?” he asked, knowing there _had_ to be a reason she was here, in his kitchen, that wasn’t to mock him. As he stared down at her, her let his eyes glow, just for a second, hoping that it’d make her give him the _short_ answer. One that _didn’t_ involve Stiles.

Remember when he could scare her by just raising an eyebrow? Good, simple times.

“Brought you this,” she said, one perfectly manicured finger tapping a purple envelope that was resting on the table, beside her hand. “It’s Boyd’s 18th birthday on Thursday. We’re taking him to the grill house, just out of town, on Friday evening and we’re gonna give him cards and stuff then. You’ve got him a twenty bucks iTunes voucher.” She tapped the envelope once more, before pushing herself up from the table, spinning on her heels, flicking her hair over her shoulder and striding towards the door.

Derek stepped towards the table, shaking out his hand and absently considering how at this rate he’d have to get some kind of events planner.

“Hey, Derek?”

He picked up the envelope before he raised his head to look at her, finger already running under the lip. She was hanging off the doorframe, frowning, eyes wide and – as they too rarely were – innocent. Anxious, almost. “Yeah?” he asked, concern for her starting to settle into his stomach.

“At least _consider_ fucking him?” she said.

For a second, the polite, reasonable, _innocent_ tone of voice had him thinking she _hadn’t_ said something stupid. Then the final two words sunk in, all concern was swiftly abolished, replaced with a weary annoyance and he groaned. He half moaned, half growled, “Erica-”

She raised her hands in surrender, and her lips curled at the corners with honest humour. “Hey, I just want to know that I’m not losing my high-school crush to some coward who’s going to do a half-assed job, okay? If _I_ can’t leave him panting, I at least want to know that _someone_ is.”

What do you _say_ to that? Sorry? Get out of my house before I de-bone you with my bare hands? He opened his mouth to stutter out some awkward apology, most likely, but she was still smiling and shrugging before he even got a chance to say anything. He figured that covered everything that need to be covered, so he closed his mouth and tried again.

“Look, it’s-” he stopped, bit his lip, and said, “It’s not my choice to make, okay?”

And god help him, Erica _laughed_ at that. “Trust me, you’re the _only_ one who thinks that,” she told him, and there was something in the way she said ‘only’ that made him think she was trying to get a point across.

For the life of him, Derek couldn’t figure out what it was. But like hell he’d ever ask.

She pushed herself up from the doorframe, but before she’d even fully left the room she’d spun back around, _again_. “Oh yeah,” Erica said, trying, and failing, to sound like she’d just remember this one extra thing. She waved a hand back at the envelope, and said, “You owe Stiles twenty bucks for that.”

With a beatific grin, she finally left.

Wordlessly, Derek spun to face the wall and started slamming his forehead against it.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell if Erica was a good beta or just a really, _really_ annoying imitation of a younger sister.

*

Five o’clock Friday night, his phone buzzed.

_DONT FORGET 2nite, grill house, 7:00. I will PICK U UP AND TAKE U THERE MYSELF if thats what it takes 4 u not to be late_

Derek smiled, and typed back.

_I know, I remembered. And I’m never late._

_Yh yh w/e. See u there, sourwolf_

*

When he ended up sitting next to Stiles, and Erica all but wrestled him into meeting his gaze, Derek couldn’t not blush slightly when she winked at him. And, god help him, even though he felt at least seventy even _thinking_ it, he could only describe her smile as ... _lewd._

**

He’d found a routine for Mother’s Day, in New York, with Laura. A way to get through it all, the stores filled with all the cards, all the signs blaring out, ‘A perfect gift for your mother!’

Put simply, they’d both gone out and got hammered for a fortnight.

But it’s different here. Her grave is a five minute walk away. He’s living in the house where she _died._ And to add insult to injury, he’s alone. Laura’s dead.

Perhaps he could have managed well enough, let himself get lost in memory and silence and so much alcohol in the forest somewhere, if he were _truly_ alone. But, in what’s probably the most ironic twists of fate yet, he’s not alone. It’s a full moon, so he’s surrounded, close to _drowning_ in the rabble that’s his new pack – and it’s just making everything worse.

He lets himself have the afternoon off. But all he does – all he can bring himself to do – is walk through the forest. He avoids the cemetery, and her grave. He’s not strong enough for that. But it’s easy to get lost and to forget in the forest. The sun’s nearly gone by the time he forces himself to turn around, and head back home.

His first thought, when the house comes into sight, is that perhaps he’s rebuilt it too well. It’s still lacking the white coat of paint it used to have – the new wood panelling on the outside is still rough and unsanded – but it’s there, the framework, the windows, the porch, so familiar that it takes next to no imagination to image her standing there, hands on hips and eyes glowing slightly, a rant about responsibility all ready before she drags him inside by the ear to make him eat some the pie she just cooked.

He won’t paint it, he decides. It looks too painfully similar already.

It doesn’t smell right, though. Predominantly, it smells of teenage boys and hormones, and food. A lot of crap food. And there’s that faint waft of gasoline that tells of the cars – the pack has already invaded his house, ready for the full moon.

Derek stands still for a second, eyes closed, breathing in the scents and listening to the sounds of the group laughing, Lydia’s loud voice, Scott’s laughing, Boyd’s low chuckle, all that and more amalgamating so he can remember he has a new pack now, a new family. He lets it sink in, until he thinks he can put on the semblance of a smile. He opens his eyes, and heads to the house.

Almost without thinking, he finds himself using the back entrance, by the kitchen. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to how he’s late, god knows Scott would ask where he’d been, no matter how many of the others realised and elbowed him for it. And besides, he doesn’t think he’s eaten all day. The door’s not locked – it never is, who would try to steal from an ex-fugitive – but the room isn’t as empty as Derek had hoped.

It’s Stiles. He’s sat on the floor, with his back leaning against the fridge, hands holding his head and his eyes watering.

He doesn’t move, and Derek doesn’t know if it’s because Stiles hasn’t heard him or just doesn’t want to. For a second, he doesn’t move either, uncertain, before the sight of seeing Stiles so close to tears becomes too much to bear. He can’t stand and do nothing. He just can’t. And leaving him to it just isn’t an option.

“Stiles?” he asks, voice as soft as he can make it as he pulls the door to a close behind him.

At the sound of his name, Stiles jumps, and Derek instantly regrets speaking. “Oh – uh – hey, Derek,” Stiles mutters, rubbing the water from his eyes with the base of his palms and trying to push himself off the floor. He can’t seem to find the strength.

To hell if Derek’s going to let him pretend like that. Not when he doesn’t have to. No. Never. So he steps forwards, resting a hand on Stiles’ arm, stopping the frantic motion. “No, hey, it’s okay,” he mutters. Without a second thought, he slides down beside Stiles, and the shock on Stiles’ face pulls a wry smile from him. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t take his hand off Stiles’ arm, but just sits there with him. He thinks he knows, thinks he understand, but he’s not going to ask. It’s up to Stiles. It’s always going to be up to Stiles, he knows that now.

Eventually, Stiles stops moving too, stops trying to physically push back the tears or stand up and run away. He breathes, but it comes out as a gasp, tight and desperate. His hand finds Derek’s, where it rests on his arm, and his fingers tighten around it, holding it with so much strength, a strength Derek knows from his own experience only comes from pain and sheer terror.

And Stiles starts to cry.

It isn’t loud, isn’t frantic. It’s quiet and private, with tight eyes and a clenched jaw.

Slowly, not wanting to distract him from his mourning, Derek switches his hands, taking Stiles’ in his right, leaving his left arm free to go round the back of Stiles’ shoulders and hold him. Just hold him.

Stiles moves with him, curling into Derek the instant he’s in his arms. He presses his face into Derek’s shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Feeling useless, and hating himself for it more than he ever had before, Derek lets his hand rub Stiles’ back, moving in a slow pattern, and mutters pale attempts comforts, wordless sounds as he lets his head come to rest against Stiles’.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles starts to say, between each choked breath. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek tells him, the words being breathed into Stiles’ short hair. “I understand. I understand.”

“Does it – does it get better?”

Derek would never lie, not to him. “No. But it gets... familiar. You learn to cope. You learn.”

As Stiles shakes in his arms, Derek closes his eyes and breathes in his scent, taking any comfort from it he can. A tear slips its way down his face for the first time that day.

It takes a while, but steadily, Stiles’ muscles start to relax. His hands release from their entanglement in Derek’s top, and his chest returns to a more normal, steady rhythm of rising and falling. It takes a while, but Stiles gets there eventually.

Derek holds him until he’s certain he’s fine – not fine. Surviving. Even then, only when Stiles starts to pull away does Derek remove his arm. He watches, focused, not taking his eyes from him as Stiles rubs his face, rubbing away the last of his tears.

“I only came out for another packet of chips,” Stiles says, a smile twitching back into place.

Derek lets himself smile back. “You don’t have to go back in there,” he says, after a pause.

But Stiles nods. “Yeah, I do. God knows who’s died in my absence. I swear, those kids...” he’s trying to smile again, and it works a bit better this time.

Understanding, Derek nods. “Okay,” is all he says, before first pushing himself to his feet, then offering a hand to Stiles. He’s so light, it takes no energy to pull him up.

He wraps an arm around Stiles once more, loosely, as much as for his sake as Stiles’. He can’t quite figure out who’s leading who to the main room. It occurs to him it could be both.

Their hands slip apart before Stiles opens the door, sending it flying and jumping across to their couch. As Derek slides in beside him, surrounding by smiles and greetings, laughter and food, he feels Stiles be his side more than ever.

And steadily, the more Stiles laughs, Derek starts to think that, perhaps, things are getting better.

**

His hands were still shaking.

Deaton had told him that was normal, excess adrenaline still in his system, but it was bullshit. It wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear.

He didn’t have any adrenaline, any energy _left_. He had to sit down at the vet’s, whilst the pack stretched and moaned, and stitched each other back up. Derek didn’t care about them, he let their words wash over him. They could heal. He barely had the energy to breathe. The only thing that kept his eyes open was the uncertain future of the boy lying on the vet’s table.

The worst of it was that he shouldn’t have been there, at the house. He shouldn’t have been anywhere _near_ them.

The moment Allison had passed on Chris’ warning, he should have got him out. It wasn’t his fight, he wasn’t a werewolf, he should have been _home_ and _safe_ but Derek had been prideful of his pack, and stubborn, and so goddamn selfish.

It was his fault.

He’d played at being alpha, sending the pack to create a perimeter around the Hale house, told each of them to howl at the first sight of the Hunters.

He should have known he was out of his depth when three of his betas had howled out at once. He hadn’t.

In minutes, he’d known. In minutes, he’d finally figured out that he was losing.

The words ‘too late, too late’, battering at the inside of his head he’d run until he’d found Isaac, the fasted of them, only to find him bloodied and limping, holding up Erica with one arm and pulling an arrow out with the other. Two young hunters were nearby, dead. “Find Deaton,” he’d ordered Isaac, taking Erica from him, “we need Deaton. Get Deaton.”

He’d had to kill another hunter, just to get Erica to the safety of Boyd’s side. Each dead body he saw sent a shock of fear through him. He’d meant to stay with Boyd and Erica, but then Scott had howled. Boyd had nodded once, and Derek had run.

Jackson was down. Scott was covering his old enemy with his body, eyes glowing and scanning the trees. “There’s at least two in those trees,” Scott had said, as soon as he saw Derek. Bloody flaring and claws growing, Derek had made to attack, but Scott had grabbed his arm and held him still. “ _The rest_ left about a minute ago. They’re heading to the house, Derek. They’ve got guns and lighters and petrol and they’re _heading to the house!”_

The weight of what Scott had told him didn’t sink in at a first. At first, all Derek could see was a blackened shell of a house.

It took the fear, the sheer terror in Scott’s eyes to remind him that the house wasn’t empty. They’d left Stiles there. They’d left Stiles in the house. They’d – they’d left Stiles –

Scott and Jackson, they were in trouble –

But, Stiles –

His pack –

_I can’t lose Stiles. I can’t._

 “Don’t worry, I’ve got _them_ ,” Scott had told him, nodding back over his shoulder. “Get the house. Derek, run. Please. GO!”

He hadn’t made it to the house.

They’d caught him meters away from it, an arrow to the leg and bullet to the shoulder, sending him crashing into the roots and dead leaves that covered the floor. He hadn’t cried out at the pain. He’d moaned at his lost chance. He’d tried to ignore them, tried to get to his feet and get to the _house_ but a boot had slammed into his wounded shoulder and forced him onto his back.

There were two. They were holding hunting rifles and crossbows, and kerosene, and they were smiling.

 _Perhaps_ , Derek had thought desperately, lying still, _perhaps if they kill me, they won’t go for the house. Perhaps they’ll think it’s over if they kill the alpha._ His defeat was his last chance.

He’d waited through the taunts and torments and mockery, waiting for them to place the barrel of the rifle against his forehead.

It came, finally. The hot metal burning a circle into his skin. “Say hey to Lucifer for us, bitch.”

“Funny, but I was about to say the same to you.”

Confused, the hunter had looked up, the gun swinging away from Derek and around to the new voice, but before he had time to aim it the baseball bat had slammed into the side of his head. A sickening splintering, and the man fell sideways. As the second hunter had to dodge his falling friend, the same bat had hit him in the stomach, forcing him to double up, breathless, before it was swung up, landing perfectly beneath his chin and sending his head flying back. His neck had cracked loudly.

Stiles – because of course it was Stiles, it would always be Stiles that surprised him, that saved him, that risked everything for this stupid idiot who was, who had been, who might be the death of him – had stood there panting for a second, looking at the bodies, at the blood on his bat, with a face so impassive that Derek was almost scared. But then Stiles had turned to him, had seen the blood pouring from him and had frowned. “Oh my god, are you okay? Tell me you’re okay!”

In the rush of relief, Derek felt like he could have said anything. He almost had. He had almost told Stiles then, how much he meant, how he was _everything_ Derek had now. He was Derek’s home, his comfort, his safety, his self-confidence, his reason for smiling, his reason for trying, the reason his pack worked as well as it did. He almost told Stiles that Derek wouldn’t be half the alpha, half the man he was without him there, constantly poking at him and prodding and laughing at him. How – and gods help the both of them – how Derek loved him.

Now, looking at the blood on Doctor Deaton’s hands, Derek wished he had. He wished he’d said it. He’d got so far, so _close_ to the boy dying there, and it was all falling for nothing. All for nothing.

It might have changed, in that one second’s relief. If he’d said it then, in that one second before Scott had howled in victory, Boyd had roared as he’d killed the final man before him, without knowing there was one last hunter waiting in the trees for the perfect shot.

That perfect shot had sliced through Stiles’ side.

Derek knew it was a joke among his betas that he liked to threaten to rip people’s throats out. But this was the first time he’d actually done it, and enjoyed it. He didn’t wait to see the hunter die before running back to Stiles.

He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way Stiles had gritted his teeth and broken the arrow from his skin himself. The way he’d fallen to his knees and whispered to Derek for help. No matter how hard he’d try, he’d never be able to forget how Stiles had sobbed quietly as Derek had picked him up, and, ignoring the burning in his leg and shoulder, had run to the road Deaton should arrive on, holding Stiles as carefully as he could.

He’d stepped in front of the car to stop it, seen the shock on Deaton’s face as he’d slammed the brakes. He’d heard Isaac gasp at the sight. He hadn’t cared. He’d carried Stiles to the car, opening the door to the backseats and lying the bleeding boy down, before climbing in beside him. “Isaac,” he’d said, “I need you to find the others, tell them we’ll be at the vet’s. Make sure they’re all okay.” He heard the door open and close, but he didn’t take his eyes from Stiles, as the boy bled and writhed and winced each time the arrow point shifted beneath his skin.

The car ride back had taken too long, wasn’t smooth enough. Derek had to watch as Stiles cried out each time the tyres hit a pothole. He had eventually slid his hand into Stiles’, holding it tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up,” Stiles had gasped out, glaring at him through the sweat shining on his face, through the blood on his lip where he’d bitten through the skin. “You – no reason to be. My choice.”

It wasn’t. Derek had decided that Stiles could stay, after Scott had sent Allison back to her family.

The pack had already been there by the time the car pulled into the car park, ready and waiting to help lift Stiles to the surgery room. Jackson hadn’t been able to help, but he’d limped after them, asking with a weak voice, “Is he okay? He’s okay, right?”

“I don’t know yet,” Deaton had muttered, rolling up his sleeves and gesturing at Scott and Derek to set Stiles on the table. He’d started to pick up needles, bottles of liquid.

“Does this mean I’m a part of the pack, yet?” Stiles had asked, the last thing he’d said before the anaesthetics had taken him under. “If I’m being treated by a vet...”

He still hadn’t come around.

The others had all healed. Derek’s leg and shoulder had closed up without a mark. Jackson was walking round as proudly as ever. Erica was smiling with Isaac in the corner. Boyd was stretching, testing everything in the other room. But Scott was still hovering by the head of his best friend, and Derek couldn’t stop shaking.

Dr Deaton sighed as he slowly, firmly pressed down the last strip of tape holding the bandage against Stiles’ side. He didn’t say anything, just hung his head, and Derek wanted to shake him until he told him that Stiles would be fine, but his muscles weren’t responding to anything. He was as good as paralysed.

“Well?” Scott asked, as impatient as Derek wanted to be. “How is he? Will he recover? Is he okay?”

“I believe so,” Deaton replied calmly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, before pulling the bloodstained latex gloves off by the tips of his fingers. “The damage wasn’t as bad as I originally feared-”

“You couldn’t have told us this _earlier?”_ Scott growled, and when the vet visible flinched Derek felt a flash of pride for his beta.

“I was trying to save your friend’s _life_ ,” Deaton replied eventually, and there’s no reply to that. Subdued, Scott lowered his eyes, stepping back to his place at the head of the table, looking down at Stiles. “I am relatively confident that he’ll be fine. It was a flesh wound – one that bled enough to scare you, and not in the least painful part of the body – but he should be fine. I’m confident and, not meaning to boast, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Can we take him home?” Scott asked. “His dad – in the morning, if Stiles’ not there – I can’t do that to him... for one thing, Stiles’d kill me...”

Derek watched as Deaton considered the question. He didn’t care what the vet said. He wanted to get Stiles back where he belonged, and definitely off the table that made him out to be a dying animal. He needed to see Stiles somewhere safe, somewhere normal.

As soon as Deaton nodded, Derek spoke. “I’ll take him,” he said.

Scott turned to him in shock. But he didn’t argue. And Derek didn’t care what Deaton thought as he slipped his arms under Stiles’ limp body for the second time that evening. He ignored the rest of the pack, too, leaving it to Scott to tell them what was going on. It was probably bad leadership, but right then, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He didn’t use a car, absently deciding it was easier just to carry Stiles. He held him close as he ran down the streets, trying to let the warmth of the body convince him that the human was safe, and alive.

But it wasn’t until he set Stiles down on his bed, and he rolled over onto his side, one hand coming up to rest under his cheek that Derek could finally believe it.

And that was it. That was all his energy would let him do.

He sank down onto the floor, back against the wall and arms wrapped around his knees, eyes fixed on the sleeping face. He took note of every twitch, every wince, every breath, every noise he made, wanting to savour all of it. It was all he let himself think about. He knew, if he dwelled too long on how he’d come so losing all this, he’d break.

Eventually, his chest stopped hurting, and he forced himself back onto his feet. He had his own bed he needed to sleep in, he couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t his place. He turned from Stiles, to the window.

“No... don’t go...”

Stiles was rolling onto his back, a hand rubbing his eyes, the other stretched across the mattress towards Derek.

Two steps, and he was crouched by Stiles’ side, taking his hand between his own. “Hey, hey, you’re awake,” he said, heart thudding as Stiles’ grip tightened weakly on his. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Stiles muttered, “Cold. Scared. Stay.”

“I shouldn’t-”

“Don’ care. Space f’r two. Stay.” And Stiles was pulling himself to the left side of the bed, leaving the right side open for Derek.

It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.

He climbed onto the bed, letting Stiles’ hand pull him on. The bed sunk beneath him, and he had to press close to Stiles so he didn’t roll off. Stiles rolled towards him, his free hand twisting into the bottom of his top, and forehead resting against Derek’s shoulder. Their entwined hands lay in the small gap between them.

When Stiles’ breathing deepened, Derek let his hand rest on the kid’s hip, and closed his eyes.

*

He awoke at dawn, as he always did.

At some stage in the night, Stiles had rolled away from him, legs sprawled across the duvet, one hand hanging off the edge the bed and mouth open. He was snoring loudly, and Derek couldn’t help but smile. The sight of Stiles sleeping was a familiar one, from all the full moons, and a nice one.

If a loud one.

He could heat the sheriff shuffling around a few rooms away, and the sound early-morning traffic coming in through the window.

Time to go.

He unlaced his fingers from between Stiles’, and with one last look towards the still pristine bandage on his side, made his exit.

**

Derek sipped at his beer, and peered down at the constructed... _thing_ in front of him. Then back at the instruction sheet. Then back down at the thing.

“Fucking Scandinavians.”

He crunched the paper up in his hands, rolled it into a ball and chucked it neatly into the bin in the far corner. When it landed in, he definitely did not mentally yell ‘gooooaaaal!’

Instead, he calmly took another sip, set down the beer and picked up the screwdriver, and started to remove all the screws he’d spent the last hour putting in.

The manual labour was... good. It was normal. It was something he could _do_ (badly translated instruction manuals notwithstanding). It gave him time to think things over.

He’d have to talk to Chris Argent at some stage. He knew full well that it was only due to his tip-off about the hunters that the pack had survived. As much as he hated the man with a passion, he owed him for this. He’d called in on the others earlier, all save Scott, who he’d texted, and everyone had healed fine. As for himself, his shoulder and leg were both fine, but his pride had taken a much worse battering. He’d been overconfident, and almost lost too much. He couldn’t afford to let himself do that again.

In his hands, two pieces of wood slotted together. He pulled a screw out from between his teeth, and started to screw them together.

He’d owe Deaton for last night, too. The vet wouldn’t say anything, not outright, but what he’d done couldn’t go unnoticed. And somehow, Derek didn’t think a fruit basket would quite cut it.

For saving Stiles? Derek would buy him a fucking pony if he wanted it, and call it a bargain.

Derek rose to his feet, and lightly pushed the framework of the bed with his foot. Sturdy enough. He picked up a plank, and started on the centre. It was awkward, twisting himself to the right angle to screw the boards into place, he liked the pain of stretching his muscles. This was a pain he could deal with.

When he slipped, almost landing head-first on the floor and stabbed himself with the screwdriver, he swore, sucked the wound and counted himself lucky he’d only done so once.

He was still sucking at it, still waiting for the new hole in the palm of his hand to heal when he heard a car engine. He barely registered it, too busy looking at the bloodstain seeping into the wood, and wondering whether it’d be better to wash it out, paint over it, or if the sheets would cover it. He’d just decided on trying to wash it out – he doubted he’d be able to sleep with the smell of dried blood right by his nose – when the front door burst open.

He peered over his shoulder, cheerfully lining up threats and preparing a full-out glare at the intruder for being so _intrusive_ – but he didn’t have time to say anything.

“I am,” Stiles declared, face red from over-exertion and a hand pressed to his wounded side, “looking for _you!”_

Stunned, Derek stared at him, at the quivering finger aimed in his direction, before his neck started to complain and he made the rest of his body turn around to face the door too. “Um.” he blinked, and Stiles panted furiously at him. “You’ve found me?” he tried cautiously.

Apparently, wrong answer. “J _eee_ sus fucking – oh my _god_ , how can you be-” Stiles yelled, spinning, hands flying to his head in sheer exasperation as Derek started to count the exits. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m looking for _you!_ Not Scott! Not the damned oven! _You!_ I always _have_! For the same reason I _left_ my sports bag in your car! The same reason why, every damn full moon, I ‘forget’ about Scott and drive myself here early!”

The words were starting to make sense, now. _Stay_ , he’d said, last night. Derek had been trying not to think of it – had been purposefully ignoring the problem until it went away, let’s be honest – but now those words, Stiles’ hands holding him in place, fingers between his own, were all he could think about. Something, akin to both fear and hope, started to settle in his stomach, heavy and softly warm.

“You realise,” Stiles was still saying, still glaring, still waving one hand manically whilst the other held his side, “that we have slept together – literally slept, that is – thirteen times, now? And only nine of those were full moons! The other times were because I was drunk, or because I had just come back from the brink of _death_.”

His lips shaped out the ‘th’ perfectly, his tongue sticking out. Derek’s lips twitched at the sight, and his sight lingered on Stiles’ lips. He was starting to get the feeling he could.

“We went halves on Boyd’s present. We’ve had a nice little mothers’ day bonding session, and, I’d just like to point out, you’re the only one who’s seen me cry over that since her funeral. You know the group already calls me ‘pack mom’? They ask _me_ favours, rather than you, and make _me_ ask you because, and quote Boyd, ‘you’re like his kryptonite, he’ll do anything you say’, which isn’t _quite_ accurate to the canon-”

Derek’s lips twitched again.

“-but I thought you’d have finally figured all this shit _out_ , because, man, if Scott can see something before you you’re _really_ being dense, and I thought the whole ‘falling asleep holding my fucking hand’ deal was kinda a sign that you’d got your ass in gear, so I was like ‘okay, right, it’s working out, I can sleep happy and maybe get a snog ( _finally_ ) in the morning’, but you’d done your usual creeper shit and _fucked. Off_. Oh. My _god_. So yeah. This is ridiculous. All of it. Okay? Good. Right.”

His cheeks were burning with the effort of not grinning. He’d have thought he was dreaming, if his palm didn’t still hurt.

With a sigh, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and let his gaze drift around the room. He could almost feel Stiles’ indignance double. “Oh, fine,” he said, trying to sound resigned. He let his eyes settle back on Stiles, raised his eyebrows, tilted his head and said, “Will you go out with me?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “ _Fi_ nally!” he said, flinging his hands up into the air. He winced as his side pulled, and his hand returned to it.

Derek waited, still trying not to smile.

Stiles blinked at him. “.....what?” he asked eventually.

“It’s, well, just a tradition I guess, but people tend to _reply_ to a question like that...”

Stiles’ mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, and his eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. Of course. I mean-”

“Yeah, I get it,” Derek replied, and his resistance finally failed, as a grin spread across his face. “Good.”

“Good,” Stiles echoed. As Derek watched, cheeks seriously hurting and head just... _floating_ , Stiles started to bob up and down on the balls of his feet, lips twitching and pursing and eyes looking anywhere but at Derek. “I, uh. Yanno. Was wondering. If, uh... we could do that...” his hand flapped between himself and Derek wordlessly for a second or two, “...snogging... thing...”

Derek raised his eyebrows again. “Snogging? Seriously? Who says ‘snogging’ these days?”

“ _I_ do, okay, because I’m a childish teenager who hasn’t had much chance to live vicariously yet, thank you very much, so I’m going to use whatever damn word-”

Derek laughed, shaking his head and stepping forwards. “Shut _up_ , Stiles,” he said, taking Stiles’ face in his hands, tilting the boy’s head until Stiles was looking up at him. At Stiles’ open mouth, and the wide, brown, dark eyes staring at him, he smiled and shook his head again. “Shut up.”

He pressed his lips against Stiles’. He was aiming for softly, but... there was a possibility that he wasn’t entirely as in control of himself as he liked to think.

He ignored it when Stiles froze. He ignored it when he started to make some kind of frantic noise and flapped his hands. Instead, Derek focused on the feel of his lips against Stiles’, feeling how _soft_ , how _full_ they were. He moved his lips, reshaping them to Stiles’, and slipped one hand around the back of Stiles’ head, feeling the buzz cut rub against his fingers, his palm, tilting Stiles’ head into place so he could kiss deeper.

When Stiles muttered “Oh my _god_ ,” into his mouth, Derek couldn’t help but smile, mouths still pressed together.

And suddenly, it was Stiles kissing him.

It was hot, it was wet, it was frantic, it was messy, and Stiles was digging his nails through Derek’s top into his back so hard that Derek was starting to think that he’d have to try and wash blood out of it – and then he stopped thinking.

Because Stiles had jumped up and wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist.

Derek quickly shifted his hands to hold Stiles’ thighs, holding him up, holding their bodies together, fingers pressing into denim as Stiles pressed their mouths firmly back together. A hand slid into his hair, grabbing a handful, pulling his head sideways and he gasped as they twisted their mouth together again, hot breath brushing over damp, bruised lips before they slid back together, desperately pushing.

When Stiles’ tongue shoved its way between his lips, he sucked it, bit it, and stroked it with his own. Stiles gasped, and Derek swallowed the noise, humming back and gripping his thighs tighter, pulling him closer. Stiles’ nails dug into his scalp, pushing himself up, elbows resting on Derek’s shoulders as his lips and tongue pressed back down into his mouth.

Desperately searching for ways to press Stiles closer, for Stiles to slide his fingers beneath his shirt, to be able to grip Stiles’ waist and hold him still so Derek could suck a mark onto his neck, he kicked the door behind Stiles shut, and took the steps forwards needed until he could slam him against it, his chest and hips holding him in place, his hands sliding beneath Stiles’ shirt –

“Ow ow fucking oww,” Stiles muttered, body tensing, hands freezing into place in Derek’s hair.

Derek’s fingers came into contact with the corner of the bandage, the only wound left over from the previous night. And he wanted to slam his head against the door. “Shit. I’m sorry,” he muttered, resting is forehead against Stiles’ shoulder.

“No. Nononono, don’t be sorry. Be happy. Be very – be very happy. That was-”

Derek waited for a second, before grinning, lips pressed against Stiles’ collar bone, where it protruded from the collar of his top. He liked that he could do this. That he could have Stiles’ bare skin beneath his lips. “Stilinski, are you speechless?”

“...possibly?”

Derek laughed, and started to shift his hands so he could lower Stiles down, gently. “I should look at your cut,” he muttered, keeping Stiles’ top up high so the bandage was visible.

As his feet touched the floor, Stiles removed one hand from Derek’s hair. The other continued, if more softly, to brush through it.

Derek didn’t seem to want to tell him to stop.

“Please, _Dr. Hale_ , I know you just want to see me shirtless.”

Derek’s lips twitched. “That too.”

This time, it was Stiles laughing.

“Does it hurt?”

“It _always_ hurts.”

Fear sent his skin shivering, and he looked up to meet Stiles’ eyes. He was smiling still, eyes warm and fixed on Derek. “I’m _fine_ , Derek,” he said calmly, and his hand left Derek’s hair to cup the side of his face. His fingers felt soft against Derek’s cheek, and he couldn’t stop his own hand reaching up, to brush Stiles’. It felt warm, pleasantly so. He liked it.

“Sorry for being a bigger idiot than Scott,” he said, straightening up, unable to break eye contact. He looped his fingers between Stiles’, prising it from his cheek, but refusing to let it go.

Stiles grinned. “Yanno what? I might – _might_ – be able to forgive you.”

Tugging on their joint hands, Stiles lead Derek around the semi-constructed bed – giving it a weird look, and saying, “Is that supposed to be a cupboard?” for which Derek slapped the back of his head, causing him to laugh – and eventually, around to the sofa. Their couch, Derek thought, starting to realise exactly _how_ dense he’d been. Stiles sat down, patting the space beside himself and looking up at Derek expectantly.

“What?” Derek asked warily, sliding obediently into place.

“I am only a small weak thing, and the combination of losing a shit-tonne of blood and that remarkably hot make out session – I liked that, by the way, that was nice, let’s do it again sometime – has tired me out. You shall now sit with me as I rest.”

He couldn’t stop himself rolling his eyes, but Derek smiled as he wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him down until they were lying side by side. When Stiles nuzzled at him, arm curling over his waist, hand resting over Derek’s heart, Derek closed his eyes. He could hear Stiles breathe, could hear and feel his heartbeat, steady and consistent. There was a peace, here, that Derek hadn’t been able to feel in a long time.

“I think you’re actually starting to fix me,” Derek murmured, fingers lightly tracing circles onto Stiles wherever he could reach.

There was a moment’s silence, before Stiles replied, just as softly, “I’m glad.” Derek could hear the smile in his voice.

Only three seconds later, Stiles started to laugh.

 “What?” Derek asked again, tilting his head down slightly so he could see Stiles’ face.

“My dad,” Stiles laughed. “You’ve gotta meet my dad again! As my _boyfriend._ ”

“...You’re evil. You know that? You’re evil, and I hate you.”

“Nah.”

“No? You don’t think I hate you?”

“Nope. I think you love me.”

Derek closed his eyes again. He smiled again, unsure if he would ever stop. “I guess I do.”

**

His hands were drenched in oil, and the small cloth he was using was doing nothing but spread it further. He should have washed them, but his vest was sticking to him in all the uncomfortable places, and the oil that had seeped through the fabric was starting to make it stick to his chest. So, currently, a change of clothes and perhaps a shower were a higher priority than washing his hands.

He kicked his boots off as he stepped inside the house, pushing the door shut with his foot, and jumped the stairs two at a time. He tugged the hem of his top up as he walked backwards into the door for his bedroom, using his back to push the door open.

“ _She's all that I want and I've waited for so long, baby can't you see that you're not the girl for me, I've known all along, that I'm in love with Stacy's mom!”_

Derek pulled the top off in time to see Stiles do some kind of spasm dance, almost dropping the book he was holding over his head as well as nearly falling off the bed. Which was quite impressive, considering it was a double which Derek had accidentally made a few feet wider and a few feet shorter by following his own instructions, having lost his long-lasting battle with Ikea instructions.

“Do I need to be jealous?” he asked, feeling his lips twisting into the half smile that always seemed in place when Stiles was being a complete dork. Unless he was slamming Stiles against things. Then it was usually a scowl. Or desperate kissing.

Stiles turned his head to look at him, lowering the book so it was resting on his chest. As soon as he saw him, Stiles let his eyes rake over Derek’s abs, before meeting his eyes and grinning. “He _lloooo_ there.” He flicking and earphone out, and asked, “Did ya say something, hot stuff?”

“Should I – oh, never mind,” Derek sighed, shaking his head, and rolling his vest into a ball before chucking it into the washing bin. He opened the chest of draws, shoving the multicoloured, branded smaller tops to one side in a search for a _plain,_ _black_ top that’d fit _him_.

“How’s the car?”

“Fine – just a problem with the radiator, nothing major.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Derek stepped through into the en suite, grabbing a flannel and trying to wash away the worst of the grease, oil, and sweat. From the other room, he heard Stiles yell, “What, you’re gonna get all dirty and then _not_ let me have some fun with you?”

“Nope,” he called back.

“Sourwolf.”

Derek grinned at his reflection. “The others will be here in about half an hour,” he pointed out, still carrying the clean top as he returned to the bedroom. He raised an eyebrow at Stiles when he came back into sight. “Do you seriously think half and hour’s enough time?”

Stiles sighed. “I guess not.”

“Exactly.” He pulled on the shirt, and chuckled at Stiles’ exaggerated groans. “Book down, Matilda. We got stuff to do.”

Of course, Stiles _didn’t_ put the book down, and instead launching into a long rant about how he _didn’t_ have anything to do and how serious shit was about to go down and he couldn’t _possibly_ abandon the characters now, but Derek had expected it, and didn’t care. He pulled the book from Stiles’ grasp, using a finger to mark his place (he learnt from his previous mistakes), and placed it down on the bedside table. “No. Come on. Downstairs.”

It still took him grabbing Stiles’ hand and pulling him to his feet before he moved, and even then Stiles kept trying to pull _him_ down onto the bed. But in the end, Derek won. He usually did.

Usually.

“Noooooo but you _know_ Scott’s gonna be all bitchy because his mum took away his car privileges – to be fair, he crashed it – and Jackson’s going to be _unbearable_ because of that scholarship, and let’s not get _started_ on Isaac – and _worst_ of all, we have no curly fries. No curly fries! Because _someone_ said we had some, what was it, ‘a freakin’ tonne in the freezer, Stiles, stop worrying, Jesus’ followed by shutting me up with a kiss, don’t think I don’t know you don’t use that, oho I know. But no curly fries, man! I need my curly fries!”

“That’s because we _did_ have curly fries,” Derek sighed, slipping his hand into Stiles’ jeans back pocket and pulling his boyfriend closer. “Until _someone_ ,” he said, echoing Stiles from earlier, “went and ate them as a midnight snack.”

“That wasn’t midnight snack, that was post-coital munchies,” Stiles argued, arm looping around Derek’s waist, and fingers tapping impatiently on his hipbone. “God, Derek, get it _right_.”

“Right, sorry, I’m sure there’s huge difference between midnight snacks and whatever the hell it was you _just made up_. Doesn’t distract from the fact you _ate them_.”

“It means I ate them for a _good_ reason, and I _didn’t_ just make it up – Google it, it’s a thing-”

“I am _not_ typing _anything_ with the word ‘coital’ into Google. Ever.”

“Really? And here I was, almost thinking you were an ordinary teenage boy once-”

“Anyway,” Derek cut in once they’d reached the last step, spinning Stiles to face him by pulling his hips around, “Why do _you_ need porn? You’ve got me,” he breathed, letting his fingers trace circles onto Stiles’ skin, eyes looking between Stiles’ lips and his widening pupils.

“I – I didn’t say I’d done it _recently,_ ” Stiles pointed out, stuttering, and Derek could hear his heart speeding up, matching Derek’s own heart.

Until the sound of the engine coming up the drive covered them both.

“Scott,” Derek muttered, inhaling the scent to make sure. “Definitely Scott.”

Stiles groaned, head slamming into Derek’s chest as if it was a wall. “Oh my _god_ , I hate him, can’t he just piss off-”

“He’s brought alcohol and chicken.”

Stiles went silent for a second. “I guess we can forgive him,” he mused eventually.

Unable, and kinda unwilling to stop himself, Derek snorted. “I guess,” he echoed. Quickly, he tilted Stiles’ head up and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Go on, go yell at him. I’ll head to the kitchen, heat up the oven.”

“Why can’t you heat up _me_ ,” Stiles whined, rising to his tiptoes to try and press his lips back against Derek’s. But Derek just laughed again, stepping back.

“We’ve traumatised Scott once, let’s leave it at that.” He took Stiles’ hand in his own and squeezed it once, before letting it go and stepping back again. “So _go_.”

He watched, still stepping backwards, as Stiles pouted, and muttered, “Yes, Boss.” And then, because Stiles was, always would be a teenager, he blew Derek a kiss, winked, and spun on the balls of his feet to go yell at Scott for being prompt for the first time in his life.

Sometimes, Derek had to stop, and try and figure out how, exactly, _this_ had become his life.

Smiling wryly, he shook his head, ran a hand through his hair before turning and heading to the kitchen, the sounds of Scott and Stiles yelling and laughing just visible through the mended walls of the Hale family house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some gratuitous smut. From Stiles POV, cos for some reason I'm utterly incapable of writing smut from Derek's POV.

It was a Friday night. There wasn’t really any excuse other than that. It was a Friday night, Scott had recently bought the latest POTC movie, so the pack had assembled round Derek’s. They’d all fallen onto previously claimed furniture – couch, futon, armchairs, puffy cushions, none of which matched each other or the decor – and shoved the DVD into the player, sat back and enjoyed.

Halfway through, Stiles had brought up the topic of food. It had taken a while, a few grumbles of shut up and all that, but he eventually got them all to cave, and come help him cook the stuff they’d all brought.

The big strapping boys, Scott, Jackson, Danny and, of course, big-boss-alpha were called in when it was all sorted and ready for consumption. At least two plates in each hand, they carried everything through, nachos, chicken dippers, salad (that wouldn’t be so much as _breathed_ upon), cheese on sticks, popcorn, cocktail sausages, ribs, buffalo wings, curly fries – Stiles shamelessly grabbed a handful and shoved them into his mouth before Danny left, following the rest. Danny rolled his eyes; Stiles grinned, mouth full. He paused to down his coke before ambling out of the kitchen.

He didn’t get far.

A few steps into the corridor – now dark, empty – a hand grabbed his shoulder, shoving his back against the wall – the other covered his mouth.

He swore loudly –or, more accurately, started to. Because lips were attaching themselves to his neck and teeth were scraping his skin and FUCK this wasn’t fair.

Derek needed to wear a bell... yeah, a bell on a collar, like a cat... just the bell-collar... and that thought wasn’t helping, not when all he could feel was one hand on his chest, the fucking _heat_ just _pouring_ from Derek, milimeters away, one leg forcing his apart and the thigh pressed into his crotch, pushing him against the wall even more. Derek’s mouth moved up, slid up, to his ear – and just as his teeth bit onto his earlobe, he jerked his thigh up, all but slamming it into Stiles, the bulge in his jeans where his cock fucking _hurt_.

Honest to god, if it hadn’t been for the hand on his chest or the leg between his, Stiles would have slid down the wall and melted on the floor. But he was pinned in place by Derek. As it was, it was all he could do no to moan, not to let a stream of swearing and blasphemes and whimpers that would have the others running. He had to bite down on Derek’s hand to keep silent, which in turn caused Derek to growl, his whole body shaking, and teeth, still clamped down on Stiles’ ear tugging that bit more.

Stiles was trying desperately to remember how to breathe. But all he inhaled was Derek’s scent, and just feel the hand pressing against his chest even harder. Shamelessly, drowning and really not caring, Stiles arched, back curving away from the wall, rutting desperately.

Derek helped, hand moving from his chest to his hips, lifting Stiles’ smaller body, pulling him against him hard, tight, and with the warmth of the other body, sweat on Derek’s hand, and Derek all but _panting_ into his ear, Stiles moaned.

He had a grand total of one thought then. _Too many clothes._

Derek’s tongue flicked out, circling his ear. If the hand hadn’t been over his mouth, Stiles would have begged, pleaded, bitten and kissed and licked until they were naked and panting and soaking with the other’s sweat – but he couldn’t. Derek was in control. Derek had him pinned.

And Derek was breathing, mouth opening to whisper – Stiles’ eyes fluttered, and closed, pressed tight –

“The fries’ll be going cold.”

And like the bastard he was, Derek stepped back, winked, and headed into the lounge.

Stiles had never hated anyone so much in his life. Every inch of him shaking, he slid down the wall, hands going to rub his face. “You fucker – you _not-_ fucker – god, I hate you...” he muttered, knowing Derek would be able to hear him. He could go to the bathroom and jack off. But, somehow, that seemed like cheating...

...when you have a whole meal of finger lickin’ good food in the other room.

A grin slid across Stiles’ face. He had a plan. He wouldn’t go to the bathroom – he’d go to the lounge.

He rose to his feet – winced – and sat back down again.

He’d go to the lounge in a few minutes. Let a few ... things... subside a bit first.

When he finally _did_ get to the lounge, he could feel Derek’s eyes on him the moment he entered. He looked back, once, eyebrows raised innocently, before collapsing on the beanbag he’d purloined that night, across the room from their couch where Derek was currently stretched out.

The nearest plate to him was covered in chicken wings. Perfect.

As they ate, Stiles laughed with the rest, chatting and mocking and being sociable – but he also made sure to lick and suck his way through every food he could reach, eating more delicately that he’d ever done before, and taking meticulous care to clean his fingers whenever they became coated in sauces. His particular favourites were the spare ribs. Once the meat was off, he could put the bone back into his mouth, and suck it clean, cheeks hollowing around it.

It was so wonderfully cliché, that he did it about five times. The final time, he couldn’t help but look across at Derek as he pulled in from his lips. The darkness of his eyes sent shivers down Stiles’ spine, made his heart stutter, and there was no doubt Derek heard that when he smirked softly. The bone finally fell from Stiles’ mouth with a soft pop. Stiles watched with pride as Derek’s own mouth fell ever so slightly open.

He smirked. Derek’s eyes flickered to the door. And it was that simple.

“Dessert? Who wants dessert? I want dessert mmm dessert better get all this into the kitchen!”

“Wha – hey _hey Stiles_ I was _eating_ them-”

“Not anymore, you fatty puppy you, it’s for your own good! Moment of the lips-”

“Hey, Stiles, d’you want help-”

“NO NOPE, nah I think the Big Boss Alpha and me have it covered thaaaank you!”

He ran from the room. He wasn’t ashamed to say it. Reaching the kitchen, he had time to put the three trays down and turn around before Derek slammed into him, hands clenching onto his hips, tongue swiping over his lips, sucking where he’d been staring seconds before –

One of Stiles’ hands found itself on Derek’s ass by autopilot, the other entangling itself into his hair, using it to pull Derek’s face down, holding it in place as Stiles bit down on Derek’s bottom lip, holding it, sucking it hard, relishing the soft whimper it drew from the older, bigger man, who had him pressed against the work surface.

Derek didn’t let that pass. The whimper turned into a growl, kiss to a tangle of tongues, stroking and wrapping and caressing and pulling and biting as he tugged at Stiles’ shirt, pulling it up, as he pressed one hand into the centre of Stiles’ back, nails digging into the skin, the other tugging at the back waistband of Stiles’ jeans.

They were grinning into each other’s lips. It was always this messy fight for control, for the top.

“You didn’t bring out a plate,” Stiles muttered, pulling Derek’s head to the side by his hair, a better angle to lick the corner of his lips.

“I think they all knew anyway,” Derek breathed into his mouth, against his cheek, his jaw, into his ear, “You stink like sex. Like you’re ready for me to shove you against any surface and you’d spread for me, moaning like the whore you are.”

“Only for you, baby,” Stiles breathed, lips twitching into a grin, legs falling open and crotch rising to press against Derek, the stiff bulge, pressing and rubbing, the hand on Derek’s ass pushing him down-

With a growl, Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, teeth pressing into the soft skin. That wasn’t what made Stiles buck, made him have to press his mouth into Derek’s shoulder to stop himself from yelling out. Derek’s fingers had slipped beneath his jeans, his boxers, one finger pressing without warning into his hole. The rough friction, the skin without lubricant, and oh fuck the _speed_ he’d moved at whited out Stiles’ brain.

He couldn’t have untangled his fingers from Derek’s hair if he tried anymore. They were locked in place, like his eyes were pressed shut, muscles unable to move. But focusing, somehow, _somehow_ able to use some part of his brain to _not_ think about the way Derek’s finger was sliding slowly in and out of his ass, he managed to move one hand, shaking, fumbling, to the button on the front of Derek’s jeans. Derek crooked the finger – Stiles’ fingers slipped as he jerked, hand pressing momentarily against Derek’s crotch. He could feel Derek’s whole body shudder, where it was pressed against him. A deep breath – as deep as he could – and he hooked his fingers around the button and flicked it open.

Moving quickly, unconsciously to the speed of Derek’s movement, he pushed down the zip, and unhooked his own jeans. Boxers were shoved down, Derek wriggling against him, randomly muttering encouragement, blasphemy, desperation, all into the skin of Stiles’ neck as his finger twisted and rubbed. Finally – goddam finally – Stiles managed to get them both naked enough to wrap his hands around them both.

For a good few seconds, they both stopped breathing, Stiles couldn’t even feel his heart, all his nerves had moved, to the press of Derek’s body, his fingers inside him, their cocks rubbing –

It was Derek that moved first, pressing his finger upwards, ever so slightly.

It didn’t take long after that. Stiles had been close for a good half an hour, and it wasn’t long before he lost any control he might have had, heat rising, seeping through him, his low stomach, building and rising – and he could feel it in Derek, hear his breath getting more ragged, his hips twitching erratically, quicker, faster, finger curling, clenching, teeth biting –

Stiles came first, gasping, every muscle in his body clenching, tensing, breath shaking as his head fell forwards, burying into Derek’s neck. A few more strokes, fingers pressing, and Derek came, his body shuddering, warm cum mixing with Stiles’, covering his hands.

They stayed in stillness, recovering.

Derek slipped back his finger, palm moving to rest in the small of Stiles’ back, and lips changing from a desperate clench to a gentle press. Stiles breathed slower, breathing in Derek’s scent, calming, and realising he was in slightly more pain than he should be. He pushed upright, carefully slipping slightly from Derek’s drip, and twisted, peering over his shoulder at the thick red line, left across his back by the edge of the work surface. “Ah,” he muttered, watching as Derek ran a finger across it. “That might – that might bruise a bit...”

He turned back around, meeting Derek’s gaze. His blue eyes were soft, but his lips were splitting into a grin, then full blown laughter.

Grinning himself, Stiles shook his head and raised his hands. “Stop laughing at me and get me tissues!” he ordered, trying to sound as bossy as he could.

But Derek was still laughing as he carefully pulled up Stiles’ boxers and zipped up his jeans, followed by his own. “Sink,” he said eventually, tilting his head towards the tap that worked as the water supply for the kitchen. He headed over there himself, washing his own hands in the cool stream. As Stiles stepped up beside him, he took the smaller hands in his own and deftly cleaned them.

“Do we actually _have_ any desserts?” Stiles asked.

Derek’s lips twitched. “No.”

Stiles groaned.

He tried to look nonchalant as he re-entered the lounge, Derek right behind him.

Didn’t work very well. Two people were giving them a round of applause, one wolf whistle, and from one of the girls, a ‘bowchickawowow’. Scott was staring at him was a face that spoke of deep psychological trauma.

Through the blush now emblazoned across his face, Stiles grinned, stepping around Scott to get his beanbag. He sank into it – carefully – and risked a glance across to Danny, who had the space beside him. The goalie raised both eyebrows, grinned, and raised a hand, palm out.

Stiles’ eyes flickered across to Derek, who was now back on their couch, throwing nachos into his mouth, and face as calm as you would – except for a lingering red tinge covering his cheeks. Derek met his gaze, and winked.

Grin spreading full force across his face, his mates’ laughter ringing around him, Stiles leant over, and gave Danny his high-five.


End file.
